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Slowly, so slowly, June regains some of her color. Her eyes welling with tears, for the second time today.

At least this time, it isn’t all my fault.I hope.

“It can’t be. My father couldn’t have done this. He couldn’t have worked with the smugglers. I don’t want to believe it.” She swallows, blinking back the tears before covering her eyes with her hands.

I stay silent, not wanting to press her for more.

A moment slips by, minutes ticking, evidenced only by the water rushing from the shore and the insistent passing of time on her watch.

I just wait. I’m good at waiting.

Slowly, June collects herself. Her toes uncurl in the sand, the hard muscle in her calves relaxing, the rise and fall of her chest slowing. Her color returns to normal, her breathing turning even and deep.

I would wait for her all day.

Finally, June peels her hands off her eyes, squaring her shoulders. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Her voice no longer shakes.

This woman is strong as hell. She’s seen something— I triggered some memory, and she beat it back. Moved on.

“Let’s find whatever message my father left.”

With that, she turns on her heel, heading for the mass of rocks that make up the jetty, nearly jogging. I follow quickly, sand sifting underfoot.

June stops, crouching down. Her finger jabbing against blocks, counting. Up, and then to the right, away from the beach.

“He used to leave things for me here.” Her voice doesn’t break, though there is a heaviness to it. “When I was little, we’d come out here and picnic, fish and swim. He’d leave gifts or shells or some silly thing he thought I might like. Right here.”

She scrunches up her nose, looking into a hole, and I step closer.

“Are you sure it’s safe? Sticking your hand into a dark hole is asking for trouble.”

“Mostly.” Her elegant hand disappears into the gap. “Oh. Oh.”

Her eyes go huge, her mouth dropping open in surprise—or is it pain?

“Princess?”

She screams.

I grab her wrist, my heart beating faster. “What is?—”

“Gotcha.” Her shoulders shake with slightly hysterical laughter, and she retracts her hand. “I’m fine. Sorry. My dad always…” Her voice trails off, leaving the sound of seabirds and surf filling in the silence.

“Here,” she says quietly, holding up a bag she’s retrieved from the hiding place in the jetty.

My chest tightens. She’s hurting. Hurting badly, and here I am, digging into her fresh wound. “He sounds like he was really good to you.”

“What does that matter if he was a smuggler? Hurting other people?”

I fucking hate the smugglers.Hate the people who spread crime and drugs across the country.

Still, I can’t shut her down again.

I don’t want to, either.

“People aren’t just good or bad. Life’s not…” I struggle, trying to find the right words. “Life’s not a superhero movie where everyone is a bad guy or a good guy. People are complex. Your father was no different.”